


Into Thin Air

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, POV Greg Lestrade, References to Depression, Slow Burn, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Thanks in part to his ugly divorce, Gregory Lestrade is saddled with what turns out to be a badly botched case. So, he calls in Sherlock to investigate. Unfortunately, things start to get a little hinky when Mycroft gets involved. In hindsight, Greg probably should've known working with the Holmes brothers would eventually derail his entire life.A slow-burn Mystrade with background Johnlock.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 124





	1. Divorce

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it's NothingSoSpecial with a brand-new fic - and a brand-new fandom! I hope you like!  
> Please let me know what you think! <3  
> (This is my first fanfic in a long time and I do plan to continue, don't worry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is in for it when he realizes his team has made a terrible mistake in his absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's NothingSoSpecial with a new fic - and a new fandom! I hope you like this work, it's a new idea I've had after falling into BCC Sherlock in the past couple months. Special thanks to Rachel Bailey (@raechem) & my wonderful sweetheart, Felina Fullstop!
> 
> Let me know what you think! (I'm continuing anyway, don't worry!) (:

**Into Thin Air**

**NothingSoSpecial**

**Chapter One: Divorce**

Noun. 1. _“The legal dissolution of a marriage by a court or other competent body.”_

Verb. 2. _“To separate or dissociate (something) from something else.”_

**The divorce is finalized on a miserable, cold, and rainy Thursday afternoon,** and Gregory Lestrade isn’t even at the courthouse when it happens. Just like he wasn’t there to notice his wife was sleeping in the guest room for those last few weeks, just like he wasn’t there to notice how her belly got just a bit rounder, just like he wasn’t there when she finally packed her things and left him for her gym instructor.

Just like he wasn’t there every other damn time she needed him to be for the last year.

Instead, he’s leaning against the driver’s side door of his car, watching silently as the emergency workers, coroners, and clean up crew rushed around him, no one sparing him even a second glance as they worked. It's a triple murder-suicide; two adults, two children. Lestrade got there late and doesn’t even have to check the case file to know what this was - an unhappy marriage, a cheating husband, a tearful wife, and scared children paired with a bitter divorce announcement, a night of heavy drinking… and done.

The same old story. Lestrade has seen it dozens of times.

 _They shouldn’t make body bags in that size,_ He thinks dully. He doesn’t remember their names, thank God, just their ages - 7 and 9. Too young to understand what had happened, _why_ it happened, _But probably better that way, honestly._

He tries not to think about what their last moments were like.

“We’ve got it here, Greg,” Another detective, Jeff, says, breaking him out of his reverie as he hands him the case report, “Autopsies should be in by the end of the day. Thanks for coming out.”

“Right,” Lestrade answers, gruffly, “I’ll be on my way back to the Yard if there’s nothing else.”

Jeff nods and gives him a sympathetic glance as he walks back toward the damned murder house. And _that_ was the problem with working with the same team day in, day out - they all knew things about each other that they really, _really_ shouldn’t. By now, everyone at the Yard knew about the divorce, that there had been someone else (for Delilah, anyway), that the papers were due today - and that Lestrade had just finished dropping them off, uncontested, before coming to the scene, late for the very first time in what had to be years.

It’s quiet on the way back. Not even the police radio in his car chimes in with alerts or new dispatches, or just usual on-the-record chatter. It gives him time to think, to mull over the scene, filing it away in the back of his head for later at the Yard, for his final report.

The rain isn’t letting up by the time Lestrade parks in his usual spot about twenty minutes later, just a short walk from the Yard’s doors. He stays in the car for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain on the metal roof of his car and taking a few deep breaths before hauling himself out into the shower, taking the case file with him.

 _It’s not an active murder case, at least,_ He thinks, grimly, _Just some reading, some signatures, and done, just like that. We’ll find out who next of kin is tomorrow, hopefully before the news breaks._

As he goes up the stairs toward the familiar double-doors of the Yard, he feels eyes on his back.

Slowly, Lestrade looks over his shoulder, across the road, drawn despite the rain toward a fancy, black car sitting directly across the building. As soon as he notices it, the car backs out and meanders slowly down the road, finally disappearing around a corner.

 _Nothing weird about that, eh, Lestrade?_ He shakes his head and turns back to the doors, electing to ignore it - no need to get all riled up over a car now, right?

Inside, the building is relatively quiet, save for the ticking clocks, and the incessant typing of computers. Lestrade makes his way across the main floor of the building towards the elevator. Once on the third floor, he makes a beeline for the coffee table, thinking to snag a snack and a cup of lukewarm coffee before heading back to his shared office with Donovan. 

Donovan is out today, so Lestrade has the small office all to himself. He sits down with his coffee and doughnut and sets the case file aside to deal with later.

Might as well catch up on paperwork now that there isn’t anything going on.

*** * ***

**It's about three hours,** 4.5 cups of coffee in, and halfway through the mountain of paperwork when Lestrade gets a rapid knock on his office door.

“Yes, I’m here,” Greg calls, without looking up as it opens, still intent on his work.

“Lestrade,” Sergeant Abbott peeks his head in, and Lestrade can instantly tell something was wrong by the subdued tone of his voice - usually the man talked incessantly, brightly, to anyone and everyone who would listen in the halls; it was quite a wonder how he got anything done at all, really. Lestrade often goes for drinks with him on game nights.

“You’ve got a walk-in,” He tells him, quietly, “From that mess this morning.”

“Bugger,” Greg slowly puts his pen down, voice noticeably tight, “Family?”

“Looks like.”

“Don’t we usually go find them, not the other way around?”

Abbott gives him a hapless shrug. “Should I let her in?”

“I’ll meet her.” Lestrade slowly gets to his feet.

This was the part Lestrade dreaded - telling the family. It went either one of three ways - inconsolable grief, inconsolable anger, or silence. Usually, though, _he_ goes to _them,_ not the other way around. Whoever this woman was, however, she was related to the victims, she’d somehow figured it out. If Lestrade is lucky, it would be a venting session with a bereaved woman facing the loss of a sister or brother and a niece and nephew - tragic, but open-and-shut.

He quickly learns that that won’t be the case today. 

Mrs. Hannah Price is a 34-year-old married woman with three children, whose sister, Sarah, married Andrew Moore about ten years ago, and they had two beautiful children - 7-year-old Andrew Jr. and 9-year-old Laura. They’d lived at their residence, the murder house, for about five years. Mr. Moore worked as a lawyer of some sort, and his wife was a stay-at-home mom.

“Was it a good marriage?” Lestrade asks, because of course he has to ask that.

The answer raises some questions.

“Yes,” Hannah answers, vehemently, rocketing between grief and anger at once, “He never hit her. Andrew was a good man, a wonderful father. He wouldn’t…”

And then she starts sobbing again, and Lestrade offers her tissues from the half-filled box on his desk as he surreptitiously slips the case file under the others. Hannah doesn’t need to see those photos - bad enough she may be the one to identify the bodies later if she doesn’t have a husband or father who could.

The conversation devolves into a venting grief session until Abbott comes back in to rescue him, asking the poor woman to come with him to hospital - “the morgue” goes unsaid - asking her to call her husband to meet them, all standard procedure, he says. His eyes tell Lestrade that he’ll take care of it from there, and he doesn’t have the energy to protest.

When it’s all said and done, with a sinking feeling in his chest, Lestrade leans, elbows on his desk, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, taking another few deep breaths, composing himself. No matter how many times he’s done this, this never gets any easier.

He gives himself a few minutes.

After a while and a quick trip to the coffee table later for his 5th cup of coffee that day, Lestrade slides out the Moore case file. It had been labeled a domestic violence situation before he’d gotten there - not too uncommon, unfortunately, but apparently open-and-shut. As he scans through it, however, he sighs in frustration and rakes both his hands through his dark, greying hair.

 _“Sloppy,”_ He growls, standing up, exasperated, “God damn it.”

He _knew_ Donovan not being there would be a fucking problem. If _he_ hadn’t been in court delivering those damned divorce papers this morning, _he_ would have been there _on-fucking-time_ to prevent _exactly this_ from happening. 

Lestrade gets up, slams open the office door to the hall, and heads across the floor toward the Chief Inspector’s office. The others who were patiently waiting outside the office see the stormy look on his face and immediately get out of the way for him.

“Chief?” He asks as he peeks in, “I’ve got a problem.”

Chief Inspector Frederick Carpenter looks up from his computer and sighs. He knows what happens on the rare occasion Lestrade comes to see him. It’s not that the two don’t get along - not that Lestrade would be caught dead drinking with him on game night - but they were neck-and-neck a year ago when Carpenter cinched DCI, and they’ve been on rather icy terms since.

“What’ve you got for me now, Lestrade?”

“This,” Lestrade hands him the Moore case file, “Missing murder weapon in a triple-murder suicide? I don’t think so.”

 _“Bugger.”_ Carpenter’s dark eyes flash in understanding.

Jeff had better enjoy the night because come morning, there would be hell to pay. If Lestrade has anything to say about it, the man will be lucky to have his job by this time tomorrow.

“That’s what I said,” Lestrade says, pulling the extra seat out and sitting down, “Shit.”

Carpenter sits back in his chair and rubs his eyes.

“You want to call in Holmes, then?” Carpenter asks, looking up at him, narrowing his eyes.

None of the DCIs liked Sherlock. Well, no one besides Lestrade really _liked_ him. Whether it be because of first-hand experience or a second-hand story, everyone thought he was a humongous git… but a git who got results, every time. Lestrade was the only Detective Inspector who worked with him regularly - Dimmock notwithstanding.

“What else do you want me to do?” Lestrade challenges, quietly, leaning back in his chair, clasping his hands together politely, “They’ve already moved the bodies, compromised the entire scene, _and there’s no murder weapon accounted for in a quadruple murder.”_

Carpenter sighs wearily, in clear defeat. _Damn it._

Sensing he’s won, Lestrade gets up. “Do you want to talk to Jeff or do you want me to?”

“I’m DCI, not you. I’ll handle him.”

Lestrade leaves the office chuckling.

*** * ***

**Lestrade decides to call Sherlock in the morning.** If he tells him now, Sherlock will want to see the scene absolutely right this second, and he is certain that he’d be out until the wee hours of the morning - which he absolutely did not have the energy for. Playing late nights with Sherlock and John was never fun, and it was legitimately one of the things he hated doing the most.

So, he takes the case file with him and will pay 221B Baker Street a visit tomorrow morning. God knew he would need to sleep before that happened. 

Lestrade takes his time getting ready to leave; returning to his office and organizing the files on his desk - hopefully, he’ll have it completed before Carpenter even realizes it’s missing, and won’t be stuck on “paper duty” for an entire week (again). 

It is already late by the time he locks the office with his key and heads back down the hall, dismissing the idea of more coffee as he passes the coffee table. He takes the stairs down instead of waiting for the elevator and heads out the double-wide doors of the Yard at precisely 9 pm.

Only to consider going right back in.

That same blasted car from that afternoon is parked in the exact same spot it had been when he’d gotten there that morning, just across from the Yard. He eyes it and slowly makes his way down the steps, keeping the case file firmly in his other hand and suddenly thinking of the heavy weight of the gun on his side. He watches it as he gets to the bottom of the steps and, just as before, as soon as its occupants spot him looking, the vehicle slowly backs out and heads back down the road from whence it came.

 _Fucking lunatics,_ He thinks, shaking his head as he tears his gaze from the retreating vehicle and heads back to his own car down the street, swearing, _God damn it. Next time I see it, I’ll go up to it._

He gets into his own car and opens the door. He thinks he’ll drop by the shops to buy something for supper, but he is too tired and passes right on by it when the time comes to turn off. He’ll eat something filling tomorrow. Definitely. 

The empty, small two-bedroom house is standing cold and empty, waiting for him. Ever since Delilah left, the house has only gotten dustier. Nothing has moved from its place, and clear outlines of her things can clearly be seen in certain places. One of these days, Lestrade will take leave and really clean the place out, but tomorrow was definitely not that day.

Lestrade shrugs off his coat and hooks it over the coat hanger in the front to dry - it still hasn’t stopped raining miserably, and he doesn’t want to stop and think about how that could possibly contaminate his crime scene tomorrow - if there is still one left.

Sherlock is going to have a riot with this one, he already knows.

Groaning and throwing the thought out of his head for the night, Lestrade makes a beeline for the well-loved couch in the living room and lies down... just for a minute.

* * *


	2. Dissolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's morning goes from bad to worse when an unexpected visitor sweeps him off his feet - in a manner of speaking, of course.

**Chapter Two: Dissolution**

_Noun._ 1\. “The closing down or dismissal of an assembly, partnership, or official body.”

 _Noun._ 2\. “Debauched living; dissipation.”

**Christ, Sherlock can be a git.** Not that Lestrade - or rather, fucking Jeff - absolutely deserves it this time around, but the man could at least pull a couple of punches for his “friend” every once in a while. But then, again, it’s Sherlock, so the odds of that ever happening were slim to none, probably. He absolutely tore into Lestrade from the moment he handed him the case file.

John gives him an apologetic look from his armchair, over his coffee, as an already-dressed Sherlock paces around the flat angrily - never a good sign.

“The crime scene has already been tampered with by your team,” His voice is chipped, hard, as he looked down at the photographs, any chance of explanation dying on Lestrade's lips when Sherlock presses him with a terrible look.

“Sherlock, I -”

“- What were you doing that was so much more important?” Sherlock interrupts, coldly, “And why did it require a lawyer?” Because of course he knew Greg was with a lawyer. 

“Dropping off divorce papers,” Lestrade snaps, just to get the other man off his back already.

John winces and looks up over at Sherlock, throwing him a gentle, but firm look. He’s been quiet the entire time leading up to that point, apparently content to let Sherlock rip into Lestrade for a while, but when it comes to Delilah, at least he knows the man has his back.

“Sherlock,” He finally warns, quietly.

That seems to mollify Sherlock for a second, because he pauses.

“You’ll come with me, then?” Lestrade is careful with the relief in his voice when the taller man turns back to him, looming.

“Obviously,” Sherlock folds his long arms and tilts his head, “I’ll hail a cab and meet you there.”

* * *

 **Shockingly, the murder house is still standing.** After yesterday’s disaster, he fully expects it to be burned down or some other God-awful thing, obliterating everything they could have used in one move. 

Thankfully, however, that is not the case. The entire place is still roped off with police guarding the door while people pray and quietly mingle at the fence. It’s covered from top to bottom with letters, cards, candles, stuffed animals, and more flowers than he can count. It’s normal in a community like this, where everyone knows everyone, and when something happens it helps people come together - friends, neighbors, and even strangers.

All this for a family lost too soon.

It’s hard to steel himself to walk past, but he does it like he’s always done before.

He shows his badge to the two officers at the front of the house, but he knows he doesn’t have to - they know the drill by now. They let them pass without a word, and he leads them into the dining room.

“Not much to work with,” John murmurs quietly. The clean-up crew had done their job already, come and gone. Lestrade had realized his error on the way over.

In short, Sherlock was probably about to kill him.

Lestrade glances over at him, shoving his hands in his pockets, bracing himself.

“There’s nothing here,” He says, simply, stating the obvious just to get it over with.

John folds his arms, glancing behind them at the two officers at the door, frowning. He wasn’t pleased either. Lestrade quietly goes through each of the rooms, and sighs as he returns. They’d even torn out the _carpets,_ damn it. How had they managed this so fast? Did they come in overnight? How had he not been informed?

He should have brought Sherlock in sooner.

Lestrade looks over at the man, waiting for the inevitable - and this time very deserved - tirade. 

It does not come.

Instead, Sherlock continues staring at the ripped-clean floor and slowly folds his arms again, his eyes narrowing down at it in suspicion. 

“Sherlock?” John questions, brows furrowing, “What is it?”

“Someone got here before us.” Sherlock growls, quietly, “Someone bigger than Lestrade.”

“Excuse me?” Lestrade shoots back, immediately, “Who?”

Sherlock stares at the torn-up carpet for a second longer before whirling around, stomping out the front door and nearly shoving the two police officers at the door as Lestrade and John hurry after him.

“Sherlock?” John asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

Sherlock, out on the porch of the murder house, shoves his hands in his pockets and sighs in dramatic despair.

It takes Lestrade a moment to see what he was looking at - but when he does, his stomach drops.

The car from yesterday. Lestrade immediately recognizes it - black, sleek, expensive, unmarked tags… shit, he should’ve fucking known, shouldn’t he? Creepy unmarked car? Tinted windows? Who else could it have been, stalking him through the heart of London, really?

The door opens and Lestrade’s breath catches.

Mycroft Holmes, in the flesh.

The (slightly) older man gets out of the car and goes around the back of the car, checking the street before crossing it and heading toward them, black umbrella tapping lightly at the ground as he walks. His face is calm, impassive, and he doesn’t seem at all intimidated, because of course he isn’t, as he approaches the murder house.

“Good morning, gentlemen, and brother mine,” He says as he stops a few feet away, distant as always, literally, “I see you made it here before I could.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Sherlock snaps, but before he can step forward, John grabs his arm, holding him back immediately, cautious.

“Why, I’m here for the case file, of course,” Mycroft answers, matter-of-factly, turning to Lestrade, expectantly, “I’m afraid this case is… unfit for the Yard to handle.”

“I -” Lestrade fights to keep his jaw from dropping. “I - you’re not serious?”

The ‘minor’ government official raises a delicate, auburn brow.

He’s actually fucking serious!

Lestrade stares numbly at him for a long moment, meeting his eyes, gauging his reaction. If he handed over the file, Sherlock would be seriously pissed - but then again, is crossing Mycroft Holmes really worth it? Sherlock would surely understand… no, he wouldn’t, who was he kidding?

He glanced at Sherlock, who shot him a vicious _‘don’t you dare’_ sort of look.

“Is this because of Jeff?” He asks, slowly, turning back to Mycroft.

Mycroft doesn’t answer, just holds out his hand.

Knowing the only choice he has, Lestrade straightens the file’s papers in the file and hands them over without another word.

Sherlock sighs deeply as Mycroft takes the file from him.

“Excellent,” Mycroft nods, “You shall find that the Yard has already been informed of my… intervention. Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

Greg shoves his hands in his pockets without a word.

“You can’t just-” Sherlock looks between the two, clearly outraged, “Lestrade-”

“Out of my hands,” Lestrade interrupts, dully, defeated, already sidestepping Mycroft, “Literally. I’m going back to the Yard. You three can duke it out if you want.”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock calls, but Lestrade ignores him completely in favor of crossing the street toward his own car, not even sparing the three a goodbye.

* * *

 **The only thing that gives Lestrade solace that day** is that Jeff’s side of the office is cleared out by the time he gets back to the Yard, forty-five minutes later. The look on his face must be furious, because no one dares stop him as he climbs up the stairs to the third floor and immediately heads for the coffee table, pouring out the largest cup he could find and downing it in several gulps.

“The freak got you?” Donovan’s voice asks.

“His brother,” Lestrade answers, putting the cup down and preparing another cup as Donovan makes a sympathetic noise - at least, sympathetic for her, anyway. Mycroft was legendary throughout the Yard, mostly for occasionally appearing out of thin air and taking things that didn’t belong to him - like, say, his cases. It usually happened to the DCIs - he could hear them grumbling about it sometimes. But this isn’t the first time it has happened to Lestrade, and he is willing to bet it won’t be the last.

“I can’t believe this,” He mutters, “Fucking Jeff.”

“You’re giving _him_ too much credit,” Donovan answers with a snort, as Lestrade throws back another cup, “He would’ve taken that case anyway. Carpenter tried calling you when he found out, but you didn’t answer your phone. Too busy with the freak, huh?”

“Wait, what?” Lestrade looks over at her, surprised, “What are you talking about?”

“That husband who was killed in the murder house worked for Mycroft Holmes,” She informs him, folding her arms as he sets down the coffee, “At least, that was the explanation he gave the DCI.”

 _“What?”_ Now Lestrade’s jaw really does drop.

“He had his people there last night, after our team got through. Lay in wait for us to go like vultures,” Donovan shakes her head in distaste, “Ripped everything out and carried it off. I’ll bet the murder house won’t even exist tomorrow.”

Lestrade picks up the large mug with a deep sigh. “Jesus.”

Armed with that information, Lestrade takes his coffee back to his desk to work on the paperwork he’d left behind the night before - now that there wasn’t an active case, he supposes he has nothing better to do now - and takes out his phone as he sits down, texting John instead of Sherlock, who is probably going to ignore him for the next week or so, unless he has at least an eight for him.

_10:32am_

_The husband from the murder house worked for Mycroft. - G. L._

_10:35am_

_Really? - J. W._

_10:36am_

_Yeah. How mad is Sherlock right now? - G. L._

_10:37am_

_He’s going bonkers, really. - J. W._

_10:38am_

_Sorry. - G. L._

_10:43am_

_You didn’t have a choice. - J. W._

_10:45am_

_Did Mycroft say anything after I left? - G. L._

_10:46am_

_He and Sherlock had it out, because of course they did. - J. W._

Lestrade sighs, raking a hand through his greying hair while shaking his head. He’d say “unbelievable” if it weren’t right up Sherlock’s alley to have it out with his brother at a crime scene. 

_10:47am_

_I assume Mycroft’s still alive. - G. L._

_10:55am_

_Ha! Yes. We called a cab after he walked away. Sorry about your case. I know it infuriates you when that happens. - J. W._

_10:56am_

_Don’t worry about it. - G. L._

_10: 58am_

_We found out that the bodies never reached hospital. Played right into Mycroft’s hands. - J. W._

_11:00 am._

_Git. - G. L._

The morning isn’t even over yet, and Lestrade desperately wants the day to be.

* * *


	3. Destructive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After meeting up with his ex, Greg self-destructs in the worst way possible and immediately regrets it in the morning.  
> TW for alcohol abuse

**Chapter Three: Destructive**

_Adjective._ 1\. “Causing great and irreparable harm or damage.”

 _Adjective._ 2\. “Tending to refute or disparage; negative and unhelpful.”

**He ends up skipping lunch (again) to catch up on the rest of his paperwork.** He remains at his desk until early in the afternoon, rarely getting up other than to get more coffee - losing count of how much he has, but by the time it’s all said and done, he sits back and nods at a clear, empty desk in front of him.

“Damn,” Donovan compliments him as she enters the small office, “Need a drink after that?” 

“Later,” He stands, “I’m popping off for the weekend. Call me if you need anything, right?”

She seems startled by that - Lestrade doesn’t often go home early, let alone take Friday afternoons off, but she knows better than to protest as he grabs his coat, shrugs it on, and heads out the door.

It’s not often that he takes an entire two and a half days off, but he figures he needed time to cool off after Mycroft’s “intervention.” He is still quite furious, unable to think about it without a flash of anger. He goes down the steps of the Yard and heads out the double-wide doors without stopping until he reaches the bottom steps, and then glances across the street for Mycroft’s fancy car.

Nothing.

Relieved that he isn’t being stalked this afternoon - maybe Mycroft had someone else to go after now that he had that damned case file - Lestrade finds his car in the lot and meanders a little on the way home, deciding to pick up groceries for next week on the way.

As he finally pulled into the driveway at home, however, he stops.

Delilah is on his doorstep.

Lestrade is at a loss for words as he cautiously gets out of the car. She steps off the porch and meets him halfway in the yard, her growing belly accentuated in the tight-fitting little shirt she is wearing - Delilah always dressed young, despite being in her late 30s. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, slowly, quietly.

“Giving back these,” She answers, holding out a ring of keys - the house key, and a key to his gun safe, and Lestrade immediately saw that attached to them, were her engagement and wedding ring.

“How did you know I would be here?” Lestrade asks, as they tumble into his hands.

“I didn’t,” She answers with a dismissive shrug, “I was going to leave them in the mailbox.”

A fluke, then.

Lestrade looks down at the set of keys and then back up at her, at a loss for words - what could he say now? What else was there left? 

“That’s it then?” She nods, after a moment, completely unperturbed by his silence - or indifferent to it now, “I’ll send you the finalized papers in the post.”

Delilah sidesteps him in the same way he’d sidestepped Mycroft earlier that day, and heads back down the drive as he watches, shoving her keys into his pocket. He watches her get into an awaiting car - where he can see a man, possibly the gym instructor, waiting for her.

Lestrade watches them drive off and waits for a few seconds - making sure they actually left for good - before turning back to his car to get the groceries.

He tries not to think about them as he walks up the steps to the door with his groceries, but the nagging in the back of his head was nonstop from the second he’d laid eyes on her, her belly. He’d loved her, hadn’t he? Once, at least? Spent the last four years of his life with her, here, in this very house.

What can he have said? Would it even matter if he had? He can’t help but wonder, carefully setting the groceries on the ground before pulling out his own keys. He doesn’t think so.

Lestrade puts the groceries down in the entrance of the house and then turns back, going for the mail - nothing interesting at first glance, a couple of bills, that’s it. He kicks the door shut with the back of his shoe as he steps back inside, locking the door, carefully stepping over the groceries, and heading into the kitchen to set down the mail.

_That’s it, then. I’ll send you the finalized papers in the post._

God.

Shoving the thoughts out of his mind, Lestrade pulls open the fridge door and grabs a beer to drink while he unloads groceries and contemplates actually eating something for the first time in what was probably two days.

He turns on the telly and goes back into the front for the groceries, making sure to lock the door before carrying the few bags back into the kitchen. He then unloads the groceries as he drinks and listens to the news, moving on to a second and then third bottle without even noticing.

_2:47pm_

_I know you’re pissed, but I need a favor. - G. L._

_2:50pm_

_What is it now? - S. H._

_2:51pm_

_I need your brother’s number. - G. L._

_2:52pm_

_He already has yours. He just doesn't use it. - S. H._

_2:53pm_

_I'll tell him to text you. - S. H._

Satisfied with that answer, Lestrade lets the phone drop to the floor to wait as he reclines back into the couch. He knows texting Mycroft right now was a bad idea. He is drinking (at 3pm on a Friday afternoon no less), he is three beers in - and he absolutely knows better than this, damn it.

_I’m afraid this case is… unfit for the Yard to handle._

Fresh anger bleeds into his chest, and suddenly he’s energized, pulse quickening, hands itching for a fight, as he grabs his phone from the floor, finding a text from a private number.

3:02pm

_Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. You wished to speak with me? - M. H._

Lestrade doesn’t even think before shooting off his message.

3:03pm

_Just for the bloody record, it was Jeff who fucked MY case. - G. L._

No immediate answer. Lestrade shoots off a second.

3:06pm

_You think I don’t know you’d been stalking me these last two days? - G. L._

And finally, a third.

3:10pm

_Not even worth answering, huh? Don’t ask me for anything again. That includes Sherlock. - G. L._

Still angry, Lestrade puts the phone on top of his chest, awaiting a response. He’d probably - make that _definitely_ \- regret this in the morning. Cutting ties with Sherlock wasn’t even on his list of shit to do. Maybe “holding out” on him until this whole business with Mycroft was blown over - so a couple weeks maybe, but cutting him off completely? That was a long, fruitless, and ultimately cruel move that Lestrade wasn’t sure he was capable of.

The phone buzzes, and Lestrade frowns as Mycroft’s name finally pops up in a text.

3:12pm

_I shall speak to you when you are sober. - M. H._

3:13pm

_Bugger off. - G. L._

*** * ***

**Saturday was miserable for a number of reasons.**

It’s been years since Lestrade has gotten so drunk he’s passed out - years and years, before he’d met Delilah, even. In the morning, he wakes to a throbbing in his head and an overly full bladder. Worse, he’s sleeping in an awkward position on the couch from roughly 4pm the previous evening. So of course he woke up at an ungodly hour, sick, sore, and in considerable pain.

He checks his phone after coming back from the toilet. _Bloody brilliant, Lestrade._

The guilty part of him reads over the texts from last night and thinks he should text Mycroft with an apology, and take whatever heat that came with it, but that dangerous, destructive part of him wants to haul off, angry and hurt, to lick his wounds in silence, alone in a corner somewhere - tempting, but Lestrade likes to think he was a better man than that.

And really, had Delilah’s final departure yesterday really cut him that deep? Had it brought him so low in the first place? Why?

 _Come on, Lestrade,_ He bitterly berates himself in the shower, a while later, _God damn it, pull yourself together. What the fuck are you doing? How can you walk into the Yard after this? How can you look any of them in the eye?_

After his shower, he takes some Paracetamol, dresses in something decidedly more comfortable, throws his work clothes in the laundry and clears up the bottles in the living room. He briefly considers getting rid of the sofa for good, to force himself to stop falling asleep on it - or worse, getting drunk on it again - but ultimately decides against it.

He’s tired, humiliated - done on all accounts, really. He knows he should try to get some real sleep or at the very least _eat,_ but there’s a nervous energy underneath his fingertips, buzzing in the back of his mind, quiet but incessant.

By morning - real morning - a few hours later, all was still silent. And Lestrade eventually calms as he realizes he’s not likely to get a text from anyone this early. 

He was safe from the repercussions of his own actions - for now, anyway.

Lestrade eventually decides to use his nervous energy to make some sort of meal - his first, he realizes as he brings out his ingredients for a simple omelette, in days. He lets himself fall into the muscle memory of it easily, remembering making breakfast for Delilah on weekends. When he turns off the burner, he sees he’s unconsciously prepared food for two people, but shrugs it off; dividing up the portion onto two plates, puts one in the fridge, and eats quietly at the little island counter in the kitchen, taking his time as he decides to sleep for a couple hours, getting rid at least the worst of the exhaustion creeping up on him, and then figure out where to go from there.

Putting the plate into the sink, he grabs his phone from the couch to see a message from Sherlock as he heads into the master bedroom, ignoring the dust that had long settled in the room.

7:46am

_Feeling better? - S. H._

Ignoring him, Lestrade puts his dying phone on the charger and climbs into bed, the mattress groaning under the now-unaccustomed weight before settling in.

Right. He’ll deal with it later.

* * *

**5:30pm**

_**Look, I’m sorry about those texts. It won’t happen again. - G. L** _ **.**

Lestrade knows Mycroft left him on _‘read,’_ and tries not to think about it for the rest of the afternoon toward Saturday evening. He stubbornly avoids the rest of the beer in the fridge and drinks some of the orange juice he’d bought as he ate the second plate of eggs he’d made that morning instead.

The lights don’t sting as badly as they did in the morning, and his hangover feels distant at best with a full stomach and some sleep. He decides to watch whatever is on the telly and just relax for a bit; moving on with his life, as it were.

He finds the second set of keys on the floor by the laundry and picks them up, clinking them together as he did so. He paused as he ran a finger over the small diamond engagement ring and shook his head, remembering the look on Delilah’s face when he’d pulled out the velvet box. It’s not something you easily forget, especially not for a sentimental old copper like him.

He hangs them by the unused garage door and walks away from them.

A little while later, the telly playing music instead of the news - classic rock this time - Lestrade sets about cleaning the dust that seems to have permeated the entire house while he wasn’t looking. It was easy to get caught up in work these days and not notice it, but now that he is home for the next day and a half - and decidedly _not drinking again,_ thank you - he finds that he needs something to do, and clearing it out seemed like the perfect solution.

He starts with the bedroom and ensuite, then moves down the hall toward the living room and kitchen, avoiding going into the guest room for now until he finishes, instead shutting up that room and locking it with an extra key he found in the kitchen drawers. He transfers his small load of laundry to the dryer and does the dishes; eventually deciding on pulling out his old recipe books to see what he could make for supper that would take time and concentration.

The books are set out on the kitchen island and he’s just looking over a delicious-looking French onion soup recipe, wondering if he has all the ingredients or if he has to pop out to the shops to get them, when he hears a sharp knock on the door.

Wondering who on earth that could be, Lestrade hauls himself to his feet and walks across the hall toward the door, wrenching it open - 

“- Good evening, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft says, straightening up with a cool nod, his umbrella making a soft tap against the porch pavement, “I trust you’ve not been drinking this evening?”

Cold dread crept up Lestrade’s spine. _Bugger._

“Uh, no, I haven’t,” He says, numbly, stepping back, “Why don’t you come in?”

*** * ***


	4. Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade has a conversation with Mycroft Holmes and makes French onion soup.

**Chapter Four: Damage**

_ Noun. 1. _ “ Physical harm caused to something in such a way as to impair its value, usefulness, or normal function.”

_ Verb. 2. _ “ Inflict physical harm on (something) so as to impair its value, usefulness, or normal function.”

**Lestrade supposes he really shouldn’t be surprised to have Mycroft Holmes in his kitchen -** the two brothers made it clear long ago that normal rules don’t apply to them, and evidently  _ one _ of those unspoken broken rules is visiting the man who’d drunkenly told them to piss off the night before.

They get to the kitchen and Lestrade starts packing up the recipe books in silence.

“A text would have been easier, don’t you think?” He finally asks, forcing his voice light as he turns from Mycroft to put the books back onto the shelf above the stove.

“I believed a more formal approach was necessary,” Mycroft answers, calmly, as Lestrade turns back to him, standing stiffly beside the island, one hand still on his umbrella.

“Why’s that, now?” Lestrade raises a brow, “I already apologized. Do you want another one?”

“That will not be necessary,” Mycroft tells him.

“Then what do you want from me?” Now Lestrade folds his arms.

"It is apparently you, Detective Inspector, who wants something from me, or you would not have contacted me." Mycroft touches a table and rubs his fingers together before looking up. "While your text's contents were angry, I have a feeling there is more to this, and with how less than forthcoming you have been, I decided we needed to talk face to face and forgo the… technology of the times."

"I-"

"- And while your text's comments were rooted in starting a fight, you must know, Detective Inspector, I am not inclined to have or continue one with you. But if there  _ were _ to be one, believe me when I say, I will have no trouble ending it."

_ Jesus.  _ What has he gotten himself into?

"Look, I wasn't thinking,” Now Lestrade unfolds his arms and puts them up over his chest - a defensive, hopefully placating stance, “I don't want any trouble. Rather got enough as it is."

Mycroft regards him with a relatively cool look, evidently unimpressed by that, and Lestrade puts his hands down at his sides, feeling like a chastised child. 

He is forty-two years old, dammit, he doesn’t need this dressing down, he really doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” He finally says, sincerely, after the silence has drawn on for a minute or two, “I am. I can’t say I didn’t mean it at the time, but it will never happen again.”

No answer.

Mycroft tilts his head, and it’s like being stared at by Sherlock - that same calm, analytical, and rather deadly eye that makes the hair on the back of Lestrade’s neck stand up.

“My brother respects you, though he will never deign to say so himself,” Mycroft tells him, suddenly, making Lestrade look back up at him incredulously, “And I have found myself impressed by your work as well, on occasion.”

At a loss for words, Lestrade just stares at him, and Mycroft continues, his voice cold, barbed.

“What I see before me now is an appalling deterioration. Is it because of that woman? Are you really so distraught? She wasn’t worthy of you, and she cheated on you with many other men than the one that has impregnated her.” Mycroft’s voice tightens in anger as he adds, before Lestrade even gets a word in, “Or is this about the Moore case? Are you so affected that it has caused you to lash out?”

“I…” Lestrade blinks and just sighs, running a hand through his grey hair and avoiding Mycroft’s piercing, knowing gaze. What the hell was he supposed to say after that?

Mycroft leans on his umbrella. He wants an answer, then.

“It was Jeff.” Lestrade blurts it out before he could stop himself.

“Pardon?” The other man blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that.

“It was Jeff Harkness who fucked the case up,” He says, wearily, “Donovan wasn’t working, I was at the courthouse dropping off my divorce papers and meeting with a lawyer. Jeff was the one who responded to the operator’s call and wrecked it.”

“You are trying to distract me,” Mycroft answers, immediately, not letting go, “Your ex-wife was here yesterday. And judging by the second set of keys by the garage door, which is rarely used, you put them there so you wouldn’t have to look at them.”

“How the fuck is that any of your business?” Lestrade snaps, unable to stop himself that time.

“You made it my business when you texted me.”

Lestrade sighs heavily and brings his hand up to rub at his eyes.  _ For God’s sake. _

“Look, I’m sorry,” He says, almost imploring now, “Can we not do this? Please?”

Mycroft levels him with that same deadly look from before straightening up, his gaze still so cold that Lestrade looks away, unable to hold it.

“That implies that this will be done later - but as my time is precious, and I am already here, we shall, as you put it, ‘do this’ now.”

_ He can’t be serious.  _ Lestrade looks up at him again.

Before either of them can say anything more, however, Mycroft’s phone beeps in a particular tone, and he frowns as he reaches into his pocket to get it, brow furrowing.

“Yes?” Mycroft asks into the phone, keeping his gaze focused on Lestrade as he speaks, “Of course. I will be there at once. Tell them not to move.”

He ends the call and gives Lestrade a serious look.

“Unfortunately, I have other matters to attend to,” Mycroft says, calmly, after a moment, “But I assure you that this is not over.”

Oh, yes it is, Lestrade vows, silently, without answering him.

“Good day, Detective Inspector.”

With that, Mycroft Holmes lets himself out of the house; spinning elegantly on his heels and disappearing down the hall as Lestrade stares after him. When he hears the door open and then closes a second later, he follows, locking the door behind him, releasing the breath he never realized he’s been holding the entire time.

*** * ***

**After Mycroft leaves, Lestrade just… goes on with his day.**

He takes out the same recipe book he’d been reading when Mycroft arrives, sits back at the island and, after settling on his favorite French Onion soup recipe, decides to head to the shops. It wouldn’t do to fret over Mycroft right now - he had enough on his plate without analyzing and reanalyzing a Holmes.

He’d learned that from Sherlock a long time ago.

So, he writes down a list of ingredients for the soup, gets his keys from the hook by the door, and leaves the house. Since he knows Mycroft is elsewhere, at least, he doesn’t really have to worry about being stalked while he shops.

… Or, well, so he hopes, anyway.

He gets to Tesco a few miles away - the one he usually goes to after work - and goes through the aisles to buy what he needs, heading back to the house a little less than an hour later. He brings in the groceries and sets up some music on the telly again before going about his plan to cook the soup - enough to last several days so he wouldn’t get caught up in take-away… or just the booze.

He has one glass of wine over the span of the next hour as he busily preps the onions and sweeps them into the pot.

Lestrade could easily say that he’d forgotten his earlier anxiety as he did this. Using his hands, cooking, something useful that also makes his house smell delightful and lived in and alive, makes him happier than he’s been in what has to have been months.

As he sits down at the kitchen table with a bowl of the soup over another hour later, he checks his phone, wanting the scores of the game that he’d missed, but instead finds a late message from Sherlock.

7:02pm

_ You never answered me. - S. H. _

7:03pm

_ I won’t be at the Yard until Monday, so if you’re bored, go bug John. Or your brother. - G. L. _

7:05pm

_ Why my brother, specifically? - S. H. _

7:06pm

_ Because he’s probably busy, considering how he left my house. - G. L. _

Sherlock’s response was almost instantaneous - Lestrade had caught his attention.

7:06pm

_ My brother was at your house? - S. H. _

7:06pm

_ Yeah, why? - G. L. _

7:07pm

_ Interesting. - S. H. _

That wasn’t a good sign. Lestrade sighs and rolls his eyes. Sherlock could be dangerously possessive of what he considered “his” - John Watson usually being the first “item” on the list. He wonders for a moment if he’d stepped out too far, telling Sherlock that he’d met with Mycroft, then decides to hell with it - it wasn’t as if he’d been sworn to secrecy over this.

7:13pm

_ Not really. - G. L. _

For tomorrow, he decides to clean the guest bedroom - where Delilah had slept for the last few weeks of their marriage - and the rest of the house that he hadn’t gotten to, maybe even the garage, if she hadn’t already gotten to it herself; he hadn’t even bothered to check.

That sounds good, he thinks as he finishes the soup - it really has turned out fantastic. He cleans his dish and then sets about making room in the fridge for the cooled pot of leftover soup. He sets the pot carefully into the cool space and shuts the door, mulling over his thoughts.

He was grateful for the food; it had settled his appetite, his nerves, and just the process of making it had been totally relaxing - a break from the stress of the past few days.

Lestrade had forgotten how much he’d missed this.

* * *


	5. Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade gets the Moore case file back and gets to work... only for it to go very, very badly.  
> TW: Hospitals, surgeries, and head trauma.

**Chapter Five: Divine**

_ Adjective. 1.  _ “Of, from, or like God or a god.”

_ Adjective. 2. (Informal)  _ “Excellent; delightful.”

**The Moore case file is on his desk on Monday morning.**

“I feel like I’ve missed something important,” Lestrade says, slowly, coming around the desk and picking it up cautiously, as if expecting it might explode or something, opening it to find Carpenter’s neat, narrow writing on a yellow post-it note waiting inside for him, “What happened?”

_ I was given this by someone who worked for MH. Deal with it. _

_ \- DCI F. Carpenter _

“Who knows,” Donovan answers, “You taking it to the freak?”

“Don’t call him that,” Lestrade sits down at his desk and slowly goes through the file to make sure everything is there before taking out his phone and texting Sherlock, electing to ignore Donovan as she rolled her eyes at him, “He’s a good one.”

8:22am

_ We have the Moore case back. Interested? _ \- G. L.

8:25am

_ Stupid Mycroft. _ \- S. H.

8:25am

_ Look for the plumber with an anger problem. _ \- S. H.

“We should go through cell phones and the landline, look for anyone who could have access to the house on the day of the murders. Sherlock says to look for any plumbers in particular, so we’ll start there,” Lestrade sighs, sitting back in his chair and setting down his phone, rubbing his eyes, “... I’ll get someone to collect all the phones in the house and send them to forensics...”

That conversation is the last thing he truly remembers.

*** * ***

3:53pm

_ Greg’s in surgery. They’re not sure if he’ll make it. - J. W. _

**< <Incoming Call: Sherlock Holmes, 3:53pm>>**

*** * ***

**There’s something on his face.**

Lestrade lifts his uninjured arm and reaches for it, finding hard plastic - it’s an oxygen mask. Around him, he can hear the steady working of machines and quiet voices, but he can’t concentrate long enough to actually hear what they’re saying. His body feels numb and useless, and he flops his arm back down after a few seconds, too tired to keep it raised.

_ When did he get here? What happened? _

He lifts his arm again, intending to take the mask off, but before he can pry it free, a gentle hand stops him, closing around it and then slowly lowering it back down.

“You rather need that, I think.”

John Watson straightens and Lestrade just stares at him.

“I imagine you’re wondering what the hell you’re doing here,” John smiles, taking a seat beside the bed, cocking his head and shaking his head, “Nasty business. I heard from the head of the unit you were brought into. She recognized your name and called me. I’ve been keeping an eye out ever since.”

“I heard what happened from Donovan,” John continues when Lestrade doesn't make a move to stop him, “I sent her home - poor thing slept here for the three days they had you in ICU.”

Lestrade eyes him warily, and John shifts a little with a relieved little smile.

“They’ll want to know you’re awake,” John tells him with a nod, “And Sherlock’s around here somewhere, too. God knows he’ll be happy to know you’re back amongst the living. He’s been worried, too, even though he’s too much of a git to say so himself.”

Lestrade lifts his hand and John quiets, this time letting him lift the oxygen mask off his face, at least long enough for him to rasp out a few words, his voice low and dry from disuse.

_ “What happened?” _

“Well…” John pauses, then shakes his head, “You and Donovan went to go question a plumber about the Moore case. Turns out he was, in fact, the murderer. He led you on chase, cornered you alone, and did quite a number on you before Donovan caught up and shot him. She saved your life.”

Lestrade doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he just nods and lowers his hand again.

“Your injuries were - _ are  _ \- bad. The surgeon who worked on you didn’t know if you’d make it off the table,” John shakes his head and straightens in his seat, features darkening, “They said that your heart stopped in the ambulance for two minutes, but obviously they managed to get you back.”

Holy shit. Lestrade just stares at him for a while, unable to form a response. Before John can say anything more, however, the door opens and Sherlock appears.

“There you are,” John looks over at him, approvingly.

Sherlock comes in and crosses the room, setting a hand on John’s shoulder before looking Lestrade up and down - it’s not his usual piercing gaze, however, it’s something so totally different that the copper can’t really say, something slightly softer. Concern, maybe?

God, it must be bad if Sherlock is worried.

“I’d keep that oxygen mask on if I were you,” Sherlock says, after a moment, “If it’s as bad as they think you’ll pass out without it, probably within a few minutes.”

Lestrade chuckles lightly and tries to sit up a little, immediately regretting his decision when a wave of dizziness overtakes him and he’s forced to lie right back down where he was, closing his eyes against the onslaught. There’s a sudden movement he sees John’s concerned face, Sherlock hovering in the background, sharp features pale and almost - almost afraid.

He slides back into unconsciousness and the world goes dark.

* * *

12:34am

_ I know you’re awake. - S. H. _

12:34am

_ Mycroft. - S. H. _

12:34am

_ MYCROFT. - S. H. _

12:35am

_ I know you arranged for this. - S. H. _

12:35am

_ Feeling guilty, are we? - S. H. _

12:36am

_ I don’t know what you’re talking about. - M. H. _

12:36am

_ If you didn’t your name wouldn’t be on the transfer and surgeon orders. - S. H. _

_ 12:36am _

_ John’s pissed at you, by the way. - S. H. _

12:37am

_ Is he still in surgery? - M. H. _

12:37am

_ No. They moved him back to the ICU. Still unconscious. He can’t breathe right on his own. - S. H. _

12:38am

_ Which you would know if you were actually here. - S. H. _

12:38am

_ The man is dying and you can’t even look at him. - S. H. _

* * *

When Lestrade wakes an indeterminable amount of time later, it’s in a different room that’s warmer and much more comfortable, thankfully dim so as not to hurt his eyes when he opens them.

He blinks in the soft light and lifts a hand to touch the bandages covering the side of his head, unsurprised when he feels the shorn hair underneath. This head injury must have been pretty bad, if they kept transferring him in and out of rooms like this. He’s still wearing the oxygen mask.

“I wouldn’t be moving much, if I were you.”

Startled, Lestrade flops his hand back down and turns as best he could, finding none other than Mycroft Holmes sitting at his bedside, fiddling with his phone and avoiding his gaze.

“Good afternoon,” He says, almost kindly, “You’ve been asleep for some time.”

The confusion must be evident in his gaze, because Mycroft just smiles, almost sadly.

“Your condition is rather unstable, for now,” He says, quietly, “They have you on 24/7 monitoring. Someone has to be in this room at all times. As your benefactor, I found it… necessary to remain here when John and Sherlock both cannot.”

Benefactor? Lestrade frowns and sneaks his hand up to pull on the oxygen mask.

_ “What?”  _ He manages with a croak before putting it back down.

“This may require some explaining,” Mycroft’s smile fades a bit, watching him, “Seeing as you have no family, at least none you’ve authorized to make medical decisions for you, I made arrangements for your care. I had you transferred to a better facility, and they performed surgery on you early last night to relieve the pressure your head injury had caused. Your recovery will be slow, but your prospects are better than they were, say, before my intervention.”

His voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s something else, something deeper.

_ I’m sorry. _

Lestrade doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, and some part of him is terrified to know.

He moves his hand over the side of the rail of the bed and opens his palm so Mycroft can take his hand. There is a brief moment of confusion as the other man does so, and Lestrade manages a small smile, which Mycroft answers with a wavery one of his own.

They stay like that for a long time.

“Stay,” He says, through the mask, and Mycroft’s expression softens.

“I will.”

* * *


	6. Division

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's stay in the hospital continues, and Mycroft appears in the middle of the night. They have a very important conversation.

**Chapter 6: Division**

_ Noun. 1. _ “Separate or be separated into parts.”

_ Verb. 2.  _ “A wide divergence between two groups, typically producing tension or hostility.”

**They finally stopped making him wear the oxygen mask that morning, when it became clear he wasn’t going to keep passing out without it.**

“I don’t know why you don’t just take something.”

“I’d be high out of my mind right now,” Lestrade points out, and Sherlock shakes his head. 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He retorts.

Lestrade chuckles. “Sherlock!” 

John shook his head as he looked back over from the charts at them. “It’s his decision.”

“And it’s a stupid one, as always.”

“Hey!”

Lestrade sits back against the pillows and touches the side of his head, still chuckling as Sherlock spun around in the spinny chair he’d stolen from somewhere. They’d shaved his entire head in surgery, and he still wasn’t used to it, or the constant heaviness of the bandages that were wrapped around it. The doctor had told him that they’d come off soon, which hopefully meant there was no lasting physical damage - he’d have one hell of a scar, though, about two inches above his ear.

He is careful not to mention Mycroft or the handholding to anyone, especially not to Sherlock, who would have a fit if he found out. The moment had been tender, almost, something Lestrade is hesitant to share and unable to make fun of.

Of course, he’d eventually fallen asleep again, and when he woke, Mycroft was gone.

“Greg?” John waves a hand in front of his face, startling him out of his thoughts, “If you’re tired, you should sleep.”

“Tired of sleeping,” Lestrade answers, intentionally giving him a hard time, and John just laughs.

“I’m sure they’ll be releasing you soon,” He points out, kindly, “A few more days, maybe, or another week, and they should let you go. You’re improving rather rapidly.”

“Without the morphine, thank you very much,” Lestrade grins, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.   


He’s been up and walking a bit, thanks to John’s patience and Sherlock’s rather impatient goading. It felt strange, and he stumbled quite a bit, but at least he was able to go to the restroom by himself, shower by himself. He relished the new independence, even if he was a little shaky on his feet and it took a very careful effort not to either strain himself or fall over in the shower.

“At least you won’t have to wean off of anything, especially not morphine,” John shakes his head with a good-natured chuckle, “That stuff is a bloody nightmare.”

“I didn’t say he should take  _ morphine,” _ Sherlock points out immediately, crossly.

“I’m not taking anything I could get dependent on,” Lestrade answers, firmly, “Been there, done that, no thanks.”

John nods understandingly while Sherlock just rolls his eyes again.

“Though something for this dizziness would be good.” Lestrade tells them after a minute, ignoring Sherlock’s immediate guffaw, shifting a little uncomfortably and shaking his head to try and rid himself of it, “My head is killing me.”

“Painkillers and anti-nausea meds aren’t a good idea after a concussion. You still have after-effects of the injury,” John says with a frown, “Dizziness, headaches, fuzzy vision, emotional problems, sometimes even seizures in the worst-case scenario. You live alone, so that’s probably why they’re hesitant to release you. If anything happened, you’d be on your own.”

“They’re hesitant because of Mycroft,” Sherlock says, tonelessly, playing with the old leather.

“There’s no possible way you can know that,” Lestrade tells him with a frown. 

“I do know that.”   


“Have you even talked to him? Recently, I mean.”

“I don’t need to talk to him to know what he’s doing.”

Lestrade sighs and tries not to roll his own eyes. He knew well enough about Sherlock’s one-sided rivalry with his older brother by now, knew that he purposefully defied Mycroft and often even went out of his way to do so - usually to his own detriment.

“What’s interesting is that you’re defending him,” Sherlock gave Lestrade a look.

“I confirm or deny nothing.”

“You don’t have to.” Sherlock gives him a small smile.

“Stop antagonizing,” John says, mildly, as he reaches across to take the chart from Lestrade’s bedside table, giving the older man another sympathetic look as he did so, “He’s got a traumatic head injury. Those aren’t exactly a walk in the park. Post-concussion syndrome, most likely. Recovery will take time, even if it’s not here. I’ll bet they’ll keep him out of the Yard for at least another month - it would be irresponsible otherwise.”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade grumble.

“At least the paperwork for medical leave is finished,” John shook his head as he continued speaking, expertly ignoring them, “DCI Carpenter was very gracious.”

“Don’t remind me,” Lestrade groaned, and John chuckled again.

Carpenter had shown up with the paperwork for medical leave from the Yard in the early morning, and Lestrade found out he had needed the entire thing actually read aloud to him in order to understand what was happening. The entire process had taken a little over two hours, and they were both equally, agonizingly embarrassed by the time it was over.

But at least it was done, and he didn’t have to worry about leave - or bills, thank God. 

He had a sneaking feeling Mycroft was responsible, but hadn’t had the chance to thank him yet. The slightly older man had the unsettling ability to visit either during meal times - when Lestrade was too busy relearning to feed himself without spilling everything on himself like a toddler - or when he was just on the cusp of sleep; the warm hand on his lulling him better than anything else could.

Tonight, perhaps, he’d get the chance.

* * *

**Mycroft is rubbing soothing circles into the back of his hand when he wakes.**

“Hmm?” He sighs, “... Mycroft?”

“It’s late,” Mycroft answers, continuing the motion, “Go back to sleep.”

Honestly, if it weren’t for the very real circles being drawn into his hand, Lestrade would have thought he was dreaming this - why else would Mycroft Holmes be sitting next to his bedside, holding his hand and soothing him as he slept? In what universe was this normal behavior?

Greg opens his eyes and turns his head.

“Hey.” He says, quietly.

“Good evening,” Mycroft tilts his head at him, “You seem to be feeling better.”

“Stronger every day,” Lestrade confirms with a smile.

Mycroft’s eyes soften a bit and he nods, “So I’ve heard from Dr. Watson. He and my brother visit you quite often.”

“Of course you know that,” Lestrade chuckles, catching Mycroft’s hand in his own.

“My brother does not often move without me knowing about it,” Mycroft answers, his gaze flickering between their hands a moment before looking back up at Lestrade, a flicker of a smile crossing his normally sharp, pale features.

“Sherlock says you might be the reason why I’m still here,” Lestrade prompts, after a few moments of silence, “Know anything about that?”

“You live alone,” Mycroft nods, as though the answer were simple, “If you began having symptoms at home, such as seizures - as you have had them before - there would be no one to know.”

At least that makes sense.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” Lestrade points out, kindly.

“No, I cannot,” Mycroft shakes his head with another small smile, “But I can keep you here long enough to ensure that you are able to at least take care of yourself when the time comes.”

“Thank you.”

Myrcroft’s eyes flash. “I am partially responsible for what happened. I do not like being in debt.”

“Partially responsible?” Lestrade frowns, squeezing his hand, “What are you talking about?”

“I gave you back the Moore file,” Mycroft reminds him, “I should not have.”

“That isn’t  _ your _ fault,” Lestrade answers immediately, “God, how could you think that?”

“Look,” He continues, when it becomes clear that Mycroft isn’t going to answer, gently running his fingers over the other man’s wrist, feeling his pulse underneath, reminding him that this bizarre conversation was actually happening, “You did give me back the file, but whatever happened after that, it’s not your fault. Me getting knocked on the head wasn’t anyone’s fault but the guy who did it.”

Mycroft nods, slowly, like he doesn’t believe him, and a thought struck Lestrade.

“You’re not… doing all this because you feel  _ guilty, _ are you?”

“I am doing this because what happened to you was unjust, and because I can,” Mycroft’s voice is quiet, “You have been an invaluable ally to my brother, and your work with the Yard has been unmatched. It is time you were repaid for it.”

Lestrade squeezes his hand. “And this?”

His face was half-hidden in the dark, but Lestrade can see a faint pink filling his face.

“I don’t know,” The admission is soft, vulnerable, almost.

Oh. “That’s okay, too.” Lestrade assures him, softly, and Mycroft actually smiles - a small, genuine smile that actually reaches his usually hard, unflinching gaze, “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Detective Inspector.”

“Just Greg, Mycroft.” Lestrade settles back against the pillows again, “Call me Greg.”

* * *


	7. Dissolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's stay in the hospital continues.

**Chapter Seven: Dissolve**

_Verb. 1._ “... Become or cause to become incorporated into a liquid so as to form a solution.”

_Verb. 2._ “[To] close down or dismiss (an assembly or official body).”

**“What are** **_you_ ** **doing here?”**

_“I am merely checking in on him,”_ Mycroft’s voice is tense as it drifted through the partially open door of the room, making Lestrade’s head turn, ignoring the beginnings of a headache, _“That is all.”_

_“While he’s asleep?”_ Sherlock sounds unconvinced, _“Very creepy. Also unlikely.”_

_“Why unlikely?”_

_“You don’t visit people in hospitals.”_

_“I’ve visited you on numerous occasions.”_ Mycroft protests, _“You are ridiculous, brother mine.”_

_“You two, I swear,”_ John’s voice enters the fray, calmly, _“Does it matter? Come on, both of you, get away from the door and let him sleep. We’ll come back later...”_

_Lestrade drifts back off as the voices grow distant, the feel of Mycroft’s warm fingers drawing gentle circles and nonsensical shapes and letters into his hand still there._

* * *

**“Easy,”** John says, patiently, “Not too fast.”

“I know how to _walk,_ John.” Lestrade answers, though without any heat.

“Correction - _You_ know how to walk, but your body may have forgotten,” Sherlock said as he approached them, “John is testing for atrophy.”

“I’m pretty sure two weeks isn’t enough for that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sherlock answers, matter-of-factly, “For some people, especially for athletes, it can happen within three weeks.”

Greg turns from them and walks a couple of steps away before turning back with a smile.

“You’re still pretty solid on your feet, despite your head injury and being in bed for the past week and a half,” John nods, satisfied, “Walking every day from now on, even just for fifteen minutes, is a good way to make sure you retain balance and coordination, even when you get out of here.”

“I don’t remember you signing on as my doctor,” Lestrade smiles as he comes back up to them.

“Just general advice,” John smiles back, good-naturedly.

“John’s better than anyone Mycroft could hire,” Sherlock says, offhandedly, dragging a hand through his longish black hair as he spoke, looking back down at his book, “And he knows it.”

“I’m not a brain surgeon,” John points out, though he’s still smiling.

“Maybe not, but for everything else?” There’s a ghost of a smile on Sherlock’s face now as he lowers the book - a crime/romance serial that another nurse had given Lestrade that morning, after finding it somewhere in the waiting room that morning. He’d gotten about two chapters in before piecing it together, and figured it took Sherlock less time, “No.”

Lestrade smiles at them before looking over his shoulder. “Thanks, you two.”

“As if we were just going to let you rot here all by yourself,” John shakes his head, like the very idea bothered him - and it probably did, “What are friends for?”

They make it back to Lestrade’s room and he sits down on the bed, wishing he were allowed at least some home-brewed decaf coffee.

He wasn’t allowed any caffeine at all, that had been the worst part of all this - well, aside from the ‘nearly dying’ part, he supposed. He was used to drinking between 2 and 5 cups a day to keep focused and awake at the Yard, and his body was still reeling from the sudden, complete lack of it.

_“How long until I can have coffee again?”_

_“Not for a while, I’m afraid,”_ John smiles apologetically as Sherlock throws away his own empty cup as they come in, _“Caffeine and sugar are stimulants. They’re not really good for the brain on a normal day, let alone for someone who just got knocked over the head.”_

“Mycroft was here earlier this morning,” John tells Lestrade, conversationally.

“Yeah?” Lestrade nods, “He comes just to talk. Usually leaves when I fall asleep.”

Every night. And not just to talk, but to hold his hand.

Their conversations were whispered and slow, about anything and everything, mundane things, but mostly it was just comfortable silence; Lestrade letting Mycroft’s hand rest over his, drawing simple shapes and words over the back of his hand, the intimacy of these quiet moments not lost on either of them - and he was loathe to say or do anything that might ruin this.

“It’s weird,” Sherlock speaks up, suddenly, breaking the silence as he looks over at Lestrade, bringing him back out of his thoughts, “I’ve never known Mycroft to consider anyone a friend enough to visit them so frequently. Maybe he’s taken a personal interest in you for some reason.”

“He may feel responsible for what happened, in some screwed up way,” John shook his head, shockingly perceptive, “After all, he did give the Moore case back to the Yard.”

“See, that’s weird too,” Sherlock answers, unmoved, “Why did he give it back?”

Lestrade had wondered that, too, but hadn’t broached the topic, yet.

“God knows,” He answers instead, “I haven’t asked him.”

“You should,” Sherlock insists.

“Why?”

“Sherlock’s convinced Mycroft never does anything without an ulterior motive,” John explains, shooting Sherlock a look, “Your conspiracy theories about your brother aren’t helpful.”

“They’re not conspiracy theories if they’re true!”

Lestrade and John both chuckle, John winking surreptitiously at him, as Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“He wouldn’t be visiting or paying Greg’s bills if he didn’t want to be involved.”

“Mycroft’s doing what now?” Lestrade blinks, and John throws Sherlock a warning look, as if they’ve discussed this before.

“Mycroft’s been making sure everything’s being taken care of while you recover,” John sighs, “He did, however, specifically ask us not to mention it. Didn’t want you to think you were in debt.”

_I am doing this because what happened to you was unjust, and because I can._

“Huh,” Lestrade hums, “I guess that makes sense.”

“You don’t seem too surprised,” Sherlock eyes him suspiciously.

“Look, I’m not an idiot,” Lestrade tells them, “I figured someone was pulling strings, I just didn’t know it was Mycroft. If anyone, I thought it might’ve been the Yard.”

John frowns and looks over at Sherlock, who shrugs noncommittally.

Lestrade shakes his head at them as he gets to his feet -

Only to collapse.

“Hey!” John is up in seconds, at his side, as his vision cuts -

_“Sherlock, the panic button!”_

Everything goes dark and silent.

*** * ***

12:34pm

_Greg just had a massive seizure. They’re doing a CT now. - J. W._

12:56pm

_They found a small bleed that caused the seizure. In surgery now. 85% chance. - J. W._

2:10pm

_He made it. He’s back in the ICU now. - J. W._

2:12pm

_Greg was asking for you. - J. W._

* * *


	8. Disentangle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After surgery, Mycroft returns to Lestrade with a priceless gift. Plus, more Sherlock/John, as Sherlock tries to get to the bottom of what Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship *really* entails.  
> TW: Mention of an OD (overdose), past drug use.

**Chapter Eight: Disentangle**

_Verb. 1._ “Free (something or someone) from an entanglement; extricate.”

_Verb. 2._ “Remove knots or tangles from (wool, rope, or hair).”

**Lestrade wakes, warm and slow, to the familiar feel of Mycroft’s hand on his.**

“Welcome back to the world of the conscious,” Mycroft says as he turns toward him, groggy and heavy-headed, “You gave everyone quite a scare, Detective Inspector.”

“S’ Greg,” Greg mumbles, weakly, through the familiar rush of the oxygen mask and threading their fingers together, squeezing a bit.

“Greg,” Mycroft’s steely grey eyes soften, “You had a grand-mal seizure, as I understand. A scan performed while you were unconscious confirmed a small bleed, and they hurried to close it. Your doctors assure me that you are going to be fine, but I am afraid that you will be here for a while longer.”

“Hmm…” Greg sighs, raising a rather floppy hand to try and raise the oxygen mask off his nose and mouth, only for Mycroft to move and stop him, stooping over him to take his other hand.

“I don’t think so,” Mycroft tells him softly, holding both his hands now, “You shouldn’t be moving very much, if at all. Your condition is still rather ambiguous.”

Lestrade hums again, letting Mycroft put his arm back down.

“Don’t go,” Lestrade says to him, simply, over the mask, and Mycroft squeezes his hand.

“No,” He answers, simply.

It’s odd, this intimacy between them, two men who barely knew each other at all, and if Lestrade had the strength, he would question it, wonder to what end - but he doesn’t have that strength, not now, not even close. He is exhausted and vulnerable and terrified of being alone, like this. 

“Are you all right?” Mycroft’s voice startles him back into reality.

Lestrade takes a deep breath. “Just thinking.”

“You should be resting, not thinking,” Mycroft shakes his head with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his steely grey eyes, “They just operated on you - quite extensively, I might add.”

He squeezes his hand in response.

“They tell me you are refusing any and all pain and sleep medication, except during actual surgery,” Mycroft says softly, after a moment, shaking his head, concern flickering in his gaze as he squeezes Lestrade’s his hand back, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t need it,” Lestrade mumbles, and Mycroft frowns like he wants to ask but knows better. Instead, he draws back a little and takes something off the bedside table, holding it up for Lestrade to see -

His grandfather’s pocket watch.

“Perhaps this will be of some comfort to you, then,” He says, softly, “This was found amongst your clothing the day of the incident. I saw fit to have it cleaned before returning it to you.”

Lestrade stares at him for a long moment and uses his other hand to take it from him, letting Mycroft help him to bring it safely back over the bed before he drops it in shaking hands.

“I assume this ‘Alexandre Lestrade’ is your grandfather,” Mycroft says, after a moment, “And that this watch is a significant family heirloom.”

“Yes,” Lestrade nods, looking down at the silvery watch, “... You had it fixed.”

He can feel the watch ticking in his hands again - it had stopped after Lestrade had landed on it in an unfortunate fall while chasing after Sherlock and John some time ago, and he’d never had time to find a decent watchmaker he’d trusted enough to fix it.

“I hope you do not mind,” Mycroft answers, and Lestrade shakes his head.

“Grandpére raised me,” He manages through the mask, “He gave me the watch before he died. Carried it with me ever since for good luck.”

“I suppose it has served you well,” Mycroft graces him with that soft, genuine smile that reaches his grey eyes, “I would continue to do so, if I were you.”

Lestrade just chuckles.

Eventually, he falls asleep, with one hand in Mycroft’s and the other wrapped around the watch.

* * *

**Few people knew this, but Greg Lestrade hadn't been raised by his parents.** _He'd been raised by his grandfather, Alexandre, a Frenchman who lived in London for decades after immigrating from Paris, in that same house Lestrade would eventually come to share with his wife, Delilah, years later. Alexandre had never met her, or Sherlock. He'd passed away from cancer just after Lestrade had made Detective Inspector three years ago - and several weeks before Sherlock had come barreling into his life._

_Lestrade only visited his grave twice a year - on Father's Day and on Alexandre's birthday. He always brought with him a pot of fresh, French lavender with him, because it was his grandfather's favorite. Even in the hospital, languishing away, he'd smelled of lavender and freshly dug earth. When Lestrade was growing up, Alexandre often found ways to cook with it, and hung so many sprigs of it everywhere that the house had permanently smelled of lavender for years._

_No one, not even Delilah, ever came with him._

* * *

**The next few days spent in ICU are difficult.** Lestrade is plagued by blinding headaches and small seizures - or “brain zaps,” as John calls them.

“It’s psychosomatic,” Sherlock proclaims after seeing one, “His body is tricking his brain.”

“It’s not that simple,” John answers, shaking his head.

“It was for you.”

John shakes his head at him and looks back at Lestrade, sympathetically.

Lestrade thumbs over his grandfather’s pocket watch in his other hand and looks away from the pair, out the window. They’d drawn the curtains so not to let the light irritate his eyes, and he sighed.

_Leaving?_

_Unfortunately._ Mycroft squeezes his hand again, _I won’t be back for a few days._

_Why?_ Lestrade had squeezed back, tightly.

_Business,_ The elder Holmes brother shook his head, regretfully, _Unavoidable, I’m afraid._

Lestrade almost asks him not to go - almost.

“I don’t know why you don’t just let them give you something,” Sherlock says, and Lestrade turns back to him, the motion making his head ache.

“I don’t want to,” Lestrade answers, as firmly as he had the last time Sherlock had brought this up, and he watches John shoot a glare over at his partner, unamused, “I’m not spending my waking moments drugged up.”

“Stop it, Sherlock.” John says, quietly.

“It won’t make Mycroft come back any sooner.”

Lestrade shoots Sherlock a deeply unappreciative look, and he mercifully relents with a sigh.

“I don’t know what you see in him.”

“He’s your brother. Of course you don’t.” Lestrade shoots back at once, sitting up.

“Hey! No!” John snaps, losing patience at once, “Sherlock!”

John sends Sherlock out of the room for a coffee break as he pretends to gag.

“Easy,” John shakes his head as the door closes, helping Lestrade settle back into the bed again, “I’m sorry about him. Mycroft’s always been a touchy subject with him.”

“Tell me about it,” Lestrade sighs. 

“You would know that better than me,” John sighs, “You met them before I did, yeah?”

“By about two years, yeah,” Lestrade answers, “They were a nightmare together then, too.”

John chuckles, relaxing a bit. “God, I bet.”

“Always at each other’s throats,” Lestrade tells him, tiredly, shifting a bit uncomfortably, rolling his shoulder, “Especially after those times Sherlock OD’d.”

That makes John sigh. “I can’t imagine.”

“No,” Lestrade agrees, dully, “You really, really can’t.”

* * *

6:35pm

_Are you and Lestrade shagging? - S. H._

6:36pm

_I beg your pardon? - M. H._

6:36pm

_He’s upset you’re not here. - S. H._

6:37pm

_And that makes you automatically assume we’re sleeping together because…? - M. H._

6:37pm

_You don’t have friends. - S. H._

6:38pm

_Neither do you. - M. H._

6:38pm

_Now, brother mine, we both know that’s not true. - S. H._

6:39pm

_He’s in a hospital bed. - M. H._

6:39pm

_Before that? - S. H._

6:40pm

_No. - M. H._

6:40pm

_What about after? - S. H._

**(Read: 6:40pm.)**

* * *


End file.
